Justice Be Thy Name
by hatelove5lovehate
Summary: This story takes place in a different galaxy, and has gruesome content. Not suitable for children, enjoy.


Chapter 1:

Horns of the hunt.

Early morning yammering of cheers and jeers falls upon the norm in the kingdom of Heksyn. Within the stone carved walls of the kingdoms capital, embracing Castle Vyth and the city of Heks, brethren under the banner which bore the emblem of Dire Wolf, partake in the luxuries of drink, kinsman-ship, and respected rivalries amongst one another. Tactically they begin forming assigned packs, something of a daily routine within the Heksyn culture, for rivalries are taught, despite their different points of view, to work as one, setting the most tarnished ties together so they may learn to fight as one, or fall as such. Regardless of agreeing or disagreeing, their all noble in their purpose of setting out to appease their great God Vulcraknite, with that of the hunt and the furs they swear to obtain. The youthful murmuring of fiery excitement is extinguished at the cold shout of "fall in!" A throng of stern countenances silently face North awaiting the harangue of Warchief Frosgrom. The crunching of snow beneath his brooding stature, garbed in the brown fur of a slayed grizzly, strikes suspense in the hearts of the eager; as the novice Heksyn Knites practically burst at the seams with thoughts of honor, and a name worthy of Vulcraknite's blessing. Acceptance amongst the barracks of the Vykxen warriors is regarded highly, and is a dream that every youth fantasies since pre-adolescence. Defending the laws of their land and upholding the creed that Vulcraknite has bestowed them, these are some of the many things Heksyn Knites take the upmost pride in. Combat and moral code aside; their technological advances, along with the collecting of pelts, that are fashioned into exquisite garments are some of their greatest qualities. In season of wither, Heksyns profit greatly from the trading of their heavenly warm fur coats, which augment in price during the time of natural decay, in which the competing Ekai meet their financial match. Their greatest rivals within the fur trade, hailing NorthWest in the wetlands of the Goddess Wadoeku, are that of the Wyekai natives. The Kingdom of Ekai being one with nature, their civilization engulfing the higher woodland areas of Wadoeku; living amidst the tallness of trees, having their settlements constructed athwart the branches, stringing along from tree to tree without the slightest bit of obstruction to natures original forming, vantaging them greatly within the hunt. Heksyns cared not of Ekai's vantage, for in their thought, its never obstructed their matching of the Wyekai before, and it shan't in the times to come.

"Heksyns, you've suffered the first and second, but now you face the third and final tribulation; and on this day, you stand before Vulcraknite, and through the perils you encounter, will be judged." Frosgrom barked at the young pups, his bushy brown beard parting at ever holler, "Perseverance is the only answer to Vulcraknites eternal question, anything less, and your worth is less. All who fail the test of the hunt, is void the opportunity to serve in our ruling Warlord Borlakk's army." The Warchiefs words were electrifying, and the recipients were amped-up, their will to ignite was just one spark of command away. "Ten pelts, ten sacrifices in the name of Vulcraknite by days end. Swords, axes, spears, and bows, will be the only weapons permitted for the hunt, no gear-lock powdered base weaponry of any kind will be used, it's your skills we're testing, not our technologies. Besides, what would one do with a shrapnel damaged pelt? Remeber, the larger the beast, the greater your glory." Frosgrom peering in the manner of a hawk as it scans the soundless forest for rodents, aggressively gazes amidst the impending departure of the young. Saluting them proudly, the Warchief greatly bellows the cold words of, "Fall out!"

The young Heksyn Knites swarm to gather the necessities of the bout before trailing off into the wilderness. Their fathers, mothers, and siblings of younger prompt them with stern love, food, water, and tools of their trade. Praying to Vulcraknite for safety of their spawn, and wishing them luck in their most strenuous journey. One that would too become a norm within their adolescence Heksyn lives. All received incentive, apart from Glaskrath, an orphan who's parents died many years prior, at the hands of fiends who lurk the shadows of the night. For a while he'd stay with a sagely man claiming to be the elder brother of his fallen father, but proof was never presented. Un-fond of this thought, though he wished not to wallow throughout the Heksyn kingdom, devoid of family and home. In time he grew to love Panthion as a father, for he taught him the beauties of life in artistic living. The pleasures of gaining knowledge through books, the magick of science and the science of magick.

"The wondrous things that feathered pen can manifest upon paper is endless," Panthion told him. "Be it art, philosophy, or poetry. They all posses magnificent powers to shape whats to come." "For the greatest minds come not from the magicians and scientists who've conceived the impossible, though crucial to there existing discoveries, its the theories they'd follow from the believers whom against odds and ridicule, sheer themselves bare; their thoughts and being, naked for all to see, daring to dream the undreamable, faring to believe in the unbelievable." "They are the true foreseers blessed by divine thought, prophets and advocates of many ideologies and unrevealed possibilities of our world, which in time, was brought to life, as they'd predict." "Those who've pleasured a journey through their great minds, should be counted lucky; for you see, origin and future are foretold within pages, and if one could comprehend the times beyond time, one could prepare for whats to be."

Panthion's teachings and oddities of equipment was nevermore apparent, then the day of his mysterious disappearance, in which his belongings left behind where bequeathed unto Glaskrath. In that moment, for the second time in his short lived life, dejection had swarmed his mind like buzzards to a freshly rotted carcass. But ancient history that is now, at least to he whom wished it so. As Glaskrath released the handle to his steadily closing spring wood door, he hastened his equipment together. Uniquely smithed Heksyn weaponry, both short ranged and long, an two Kahaligarin oddities of warfare are collected and fastened tightly in place. The Warchiefs barks falling deafly upon Glaskraths ears, for in chances of great distress he knew the dangerous Kahaligarin tool, invented by the God from the land far NorthEast, Kahaligara, may prove to be a useful and harmful distraction. Regardless of the penalization if caught disobeying, he believed safety of his own and the others venturing by his side, was far more critical, for they were mere beginners of fates start, a concept thoroughly explained by his former guardian and mentor. Glaskrath cladded himself in steal hooped mail, his undergarments being a navy blue woolen tunic and dim gray trousers in which he tucked the cuffs into his buckled burnt umber leather boots, proceeding to the connection of his unique eerie black fur lined leather cloak, a family heirloom crafted from that of the same legendary fur and skin that marks the Heksyn flag; flinging back his long pale-striped brown hair, in which fear had reaved the strands of its color long ago. Reveals a necklace which bore his ancestral sigil, one that Panthion had gifted him, along with heading words to "never remove it, and never let it be removed." With wardrobe complete, weapons sheathed and strapped; some perceptively visible, and others, a trick up the sleeve, Glaskrath makes for the door.

The prelude horn of the hunt scarcely sounded, as Glaskrath strode out of the house that was bequeathed unto him. Making way towards his assigned brethren, he ponders the times past. The flourishes and withers building up to this moment, the all awaited chance for honor in the eyes of the great Vulcraknite; he was ready to begin the oath he swore completion to, and to best the oath he swore to himself. "Like wolves we shall be, swiftly descending upon our prey," Angraphin, cladded in white woolen tunic, a layer of steel hooped mail, and tawny trousers, waits with a joyous greeting of his brown eyes and parted rose gold locks, boastfully calls to Glaskrath. "And Vulcraknite's blessing, we'll live to kill another day" he wittingly responded locking arms with the only friend he ever knew. Glaskrath catching a glimpse of Yvaak's stare, turns to look upon him; Yvaak, wearing a brick red woolen tunic beneath steel hooped mail, and raw umber trousers, then jars his head to the side, simultaneously scoffing and rolling his sullen eyes, in which his short black hair matched in grimness. "It appears that a variety of animals, furred and bare may be hunted today," growled Glaskrath peering at Yvaak coldly, whilst he angrily clenched his fist, peering back just as cold. Angraphin retracts Glaskrath a few feet, "I know you and Yvaak never saw eye to eye on anything, even as young-lings, but you know of the honor at stake in this final tribulation. For the House of Dire Wolf as well as Vulcraknite, could you please aid us in accomplishment to our impending bout without waning one another?" The calming sincerity within Angraphin's words obligated Glaskrath's compliance. As the Heksyn packs drew closer to the elevating iron spikes and widening entrance of the great wooden gate, a vast sea of nervousness rose a tide, an began breaking upon the shores of their entrails. The pack of five consisting of Glaskrath, Angraphin, Yvaak, Kyre, and Natar; physically and mentally prepare themselves. For the final horn of the hunt sounds, and their obscure journey, now begins.

Chapter 2:

The Forest of Elrith

The fathomless beauty of the vast forest of Elrith, one half of the unofficial but respectfully acknowledged kingdom of Fae; the other being Orriph in the wetlands of the Goddess Wadoeku to the West, is only vaster in these times of wither. Vistas of ancient lichen spattered trees; gargantuan both in width and height, jagged with its gorgeous reddish tinted bark, rigidly frigid and vividly aged. Cast checkered rays of vibrant light and warmth threw knotted snow-buried branches; needle-green ridden and extending in great distances, upheaving their piney arms as if they were reaching for the heavens themselves. Mushrooms and fungi of different types resides closely to the archaic roots of their inanimate, but spiritually existing host. Echoing's of mystical murmurings, chitters, and chirps flank from all sides. Silhouettes of extensive faery species form at the corners of vision, and disperse as quickly as they form. Magically animated their peeking souls, hyper-colorful and sparkling; venturing in and out of the indistinct shadows, singing enchanting tunes in languages alien to the numerous dialects of the Arthonian tongue. The spectating inhabitants of Elrith and Orriph dormant, but protecting her always from the pruning hooks and axes of civilizations. Shuffling's of slimy insects and filthy rodents alike; quest for food as they make their way through icy swards and shrubs, camouflaging within the mossy toadstool stricken logs; averting themselves from falling prey to the sharpened talons of the many sleek an rainbow-esque birds patrolling the snow-wept forest, partaking in the quest as well. The soft, sweet, and dulling scent of various flowers that once flourished, acceptingly dwindle into decrepincy, nodding their weakening heads as they watch their pedals wrinkle and dry to shriveled bits of vegetation, lifeless, useless, and without purpose in the regrowth of nature. Though wither brings about the death of the landscape in a variety of ways, it's renewal upon the time of flourish is picturesque and breathtaking, just as the rebirth of the fiery winged phoenix ascending from its ashen remains.

Glaskrath, bringing up the rear of the pack of Heksyn youths led by Yvaak; stealthily move out in the serpents formation, tracking the snow printed hooves of their impending sacrifices. Yvaak kneels, examining them closely, "The multitude of these hoof pressings, foretell a family of deer heading out NorthWestward," Yvaak gravely announced. "If parched, they'll be heading for the Indghaull River to quench themselves" Glaskrath added on. The mystical melodies encompassed their air like a thick fog, its jaunty and inviting ambiance, secretly held an ominous mystery within. Glaskrath broke the symphonic a-capella and the over indulgence of his comrades with a great shout of, "harken not to the songs of the fae, one could never be certain whether the euphoric seduction cometh from the darkly or lighted, nor we know of their intentions." "Quickly then" Angraphin shot back, shaking his mind from the trance, "allow no time to be wasted, onward to glory!" Sprinting after one another, they speedily advance in quick bursts, concealing their movements behind the gargantuan trees, and the rising grayish boulders fastened to the frozen soil. Scouting the forest grounds upon snapping twigs, swaying shrubs, and glimpses of fae, until finally arriving to a silent halt. Cascading rays enhance the quaint mystique of natures labyrinthine; widening to form a perfect glade. A brilliant navy blue stream accompanies the grassy glade yonder West, granting rejuvenation to the thirsted and weary.

An as Yvaak and Glaskrath predicted, lively doe and buck refreshingly prance and drink from the calm Indghaull torrent. Fresh in age, for they were guarded by what would appear to be the guiding buck; standing proudly, boney antlers a crane to the sky. Glaskrath mazed over the masculine aging buck and offspring; whose pelts worth would be a fine keep, though not the reasoning behind his stonishment. The respected nobility in which the aged buck preserved himself, drew a warmth in Glaskrath's heart, and a hearty smile to his previously brooding face. Thoughts of Panthion's guidance, mimicked that of the elder fallow's. The young doe and buck harkening and experiencing new wonders at the account of their guardian, as did Glaskrath, before Panthion's untimely disappearance.

"Look Glaskrath," he could hear Panthion still "every thing in nature has its purpose, and when of age purpose shall unfold before all." "Though the hunt is impeccable to our beliefs, its dire to differentiate those close to fates end, from those just beginning." "For without the beginners of fates start, there would be none to carry to fates end." Glaskraths adolescent eyes widen with realization and understanding, "so if the young are hunted young, their would be none to rear nor reproduce, and without their furs, Heksyn would be left to freeze during wither." "Precisely!" Responds a grinning Panthion, "every creature big or small has its purpose, and the right to make there own destiny, before fates end reaches out for them." "Now tell me Glaskrath," Panthion giving an inquisitive glare into his tanzanite eyes, "you wouldn't steal the destiny of a beginner, regardless of it's being, for sheer profit in life, would you?" Without hesitation, Glaskrath darted back "never," glaring back just as intently as Panthion. Panthion chuckles, placing his hand softly upon Glaskraths head, "you will make a fine hero someday."

A scenery of innocence untarnished by the laws of nature, one Glaskrath continued drinking in happily. Lost within admiration, Glaskrath's keen eyes almost went unnoticed to the line of steel-tipped arrows peering back, ready to catch their prey. "Hold!" Glaskrath aggressively exclaimed, firing his words faster and sharper then the peering arrows fatally aligned. Angraphin immediately withdrew his pull, followed by Natar. Kyre hesitated, staring at Yvaak; whom ignores Glaskrath's call and readies his release. As the semi-alerted deer gawk suspiciously towards their position, Yvaak's sight pinpoints the aged buck. The arrow scarcely soared momentarily, as Glaskrath's uniquely designed steel hatchet, freshly returned from the grindstone, whose black leather laced handle engraved sigils of warding and blessings, flew from the balanced palm of Glaskrath. Rapidly rotating from sharpen bit to curved knob, until the blade beheaded the steel tip against a tree. The alerted deer hearing the scuffle, scamper off North disappearing beyond the trees. Glaskrath removes his steel hatchet from the sturdy bark; giving the headless arrow back to it's archer. "I said hold,' speaking harshly towards Yvaak. Turning his back, Glaskrath proceeds into the galde.

A tempering Yvaak jeered, "who claimed you leader?!" Pursuing Glaskrath in a warring manner. Angraphin quickly wedging himself between the two warriors, struggles to keep them apart; pleading to fined reason and compromise amongst the rivals. "Forget not the reason why teeth remain absent from your grin," Glaskrath viciously snarled jarring Angraphin aside. Rage smitten, a grimacing Yvaak cries, "I will break what you have broken," cracking Glaskrath's curved nose against his skull. Gushing blood paints Glaskrath's features crimson, as Yviak double-leg sweeps Glaskrath, power-slamming him into the icy floor. Despite Yvaak's succession, Glaskrath constricts his legs athwart his rival's waist like that of the boa snake; trading solid fists with Yvaak, all awhile the other Heksyns frantically try to part them. Yvaak accosting the Heksyns interfering, forcefully thrusts his arms back elbow first, landing a heavily precise blow to the guts of both Krye and Natar. The two Heksyns clamored in pain, taking knees to reclaim the breath extracted from them, but not before Glaskrath dealt a southpaw jab to Yvaak's mailed torso; followed by a stone right hook rotating his rivals blood-spat jaw something fierce. Yvaak, bottom lip busted lies flat on his back; bloodied and skull pounding. Glaskrath descending over him, arches back for the final blow; when a gut-wrenching roar echoes from South yonder.

Heksyn heads turn to face a neighboring grizzly, whose attentions were raised; via blaring imprecations and war cries shared between the rivals. Fiercely charging, the Heksyns attempt to disperse at the swing of the grizzlies massive claws. Yvaak alone, felt the digging of its claws into flesh; as he fell belly first at the mercy of the beast, the mighty swung it delivered tore the steel hooped mail and skin clean off Yvaak's back in one devastating swoop. Natar vigorously spearing the hide of the grizzly, provoking its bestial instinct upon himself, lest Yvaak be torn to shreds. The livid grizzly scarcely sighted upon Natar, as Kyre swiftly tended to an excessively wounded Yvaak; whose streaming blood began to steam as it made contact with snow. Angraphin violently peers back bolt after bolt to no avail, even as Natar spear-chested the beast; he lies helplessly trampled beneath its claws of superiority. The widening jaws of death sets to strike, as Glaskrath commandeers the spine of the beast; mercilessly hacking its throat in full-fledged barbarism. The grizzlies mighty roar alters to a guttural gurgling of agony. As its burly writhing body slowly goes limp, and its partially decapitated head lazily slopes, victory is the Heksyns. Angraphin and Glaskrath aid a blood-drenched Natar, freeing his legs from under the beast. "Are you all right?" Angraphin questioned Natar, "Is anything wounded?" "Vulcraknites blessing! I've come out unscathed" he spoke exultingly. Triumphant in their bout, Angraphin and Natar begin harvesting their pack's sacrifice; collecting the grizzlies pelt one slice at a time, whilst Glaskrath approached Kyre and a wounded Yvaak. "Are they fatal?" Glaskrath sternly asked as Yvaak raised his head to meet his eyes. "Flesh wounds thankfully, I owe it to the mail; the beast didn't lacerate further," Yvaak responded. Glaskrath nodding in agreement, proudly extends his bloodstained hand towards his rival. Clasping his hand, Glaskrath raises Yvaak back to his feet, exchanging looks of new found respect and brotherhood for one another.

After countless long and grueling hours camped out in the wilderness, avoiding the call of the Fae, the tedious stalks of the hunt, ventually amounted to several honorable bloodletting sacrifices of lone wapiti, moose, and brush wolves. The Heksyn quota was finally achieved. Bloodied, bruised, and mucky, the Heksyn youths gather their requisitioned pelts preparing to head out Southward home; bountiful in fur and glory, ready to clank tankards overflowing with honeyed-mead in homage to Vulcraknite, and toasts complementing their skillful attribute and success. With accomplishment close at hand, the reforming of the serpents formation held Yvaak again leading the pack, while Glaskrath brought up the rear as he did before. But as destiny would have it, Glaskrath gazed before the North; while his fellow Heksyns set for their hasty sprint home. Savoring the sight of Elrith's arcane beauty, wishing well to the family of deer he'd save from the thrall fate of pelt duty. Raised his sights toward the sky blue heavens, only to behold layers of smokey clouds blemishing the midday sky. Vastly ascending from an obscure location NorthWestward, semi-close in distances, but not within the range of sight. The Heksyn pack takes flight. Glaskrath glancing over his shoulder, watches his comrades advance South bound toward Heksyn. Glaskrath, hesitating to follow, contemplates the path of the soldier, from that of the hero. "It's Heksyn duty to defend and uphold the laws of our land, or die fighting for the laws we believe," he passionately spoke under his breath. In that thought, a split decision was made. Finding himself striding the opposite way of his fellow Heksyn Knites, North bound toward the smoke infested location, unaware of the profound perils that bade him their.

Chapter 3:

A Village Condemned

The rank smell of Heksyn blood lingers the withers midday breeze, as does the stale taste of iron. Soundless white flakes trickle over various puddles of crimson slush, whilst the crisp icy winds whisper tales of slaughter, and of other atrocities that struck under the guise of the previous nightfall; for there was no other alive, to speak it. The astronomical fire hangs still as dying masses of black smoke dissipates, becoming one with the heavens atmospheric processing. Clearing the grounds enough for light to shimmer a casting shadow upon the entrance of the hazy, and charred village of Wurheim.

Motionless; at the wake of the dead, stands Glaskrath. His glittering tanzanite eyes dilate, not by the view of arbitrary butchery alone, but by the accompanied repugnant odor of rot. For every soft kiss the wind bestowed, flirting swaying his oddly colored hair about, was met with foul aromas plaguing his nostrils. The deathly burning smell, was that of injustice. Glaskrath, prolonging his observation of the nauseating view, quietly traverses the silent and murky ruin. The only audible sound was that of the crackling fires, deconstructing the remains of the charred houses. Few raging, and others, mere embers waning until nothing but burnt debris, and rubble was left. Rigorously Glaskrath began examining the ruination. Searching, hoping for life, be it dwindling lest it's suffering but alive nevertheless. Long enough to pick the brain of the would be lone survivor for answers, and for the whereabouts of the demented fiends responsible. But life was not existent, only the blood ridden mute horror echoing throughout a village condemned from the night before. And if you listen carefully, you could still hear them, screaming.

As Glaskrath approached the center of Wurheim; his chiseled stern features cracked a cringe as he averted his gaze from an unholy diorama. Nausea began to stir, rancid smells heavily crept throughout his nostrils touching the back of his throat, his taste-buds soured and eyes watered as he fell to his knees. Violently purging what little food he had eaten, while on the hunt, he ascends to gaze once more upon the once beautiful and busy heart of Wurheim, now baring a marveled disgust; monumenting the condemnation of the village. A massive crimson puddle of slush, residing beneath a grand heap of bare decomposing headless torsos, half eaten limbs, and petrified attributes that you'd once call faces. Misery nor agony can decipher in words, being an offering to such a tragic fate; of that, there is no doubt. But it was four unfortunate souls who bore the worst. For it was them, who were condemned to a dreadfully slow impalement. A father, mother, son, and daughter; circled the pungent heap. Stakes driven threw their rectums; splitting their perineum's, disfiguring their genitals, and mangling their intestines until each tip of the splintery wooden spikes tore its way up their throats. Presenting the visceral residue of the blood damped spike, that hideously resides within their ripped cheeks, and overly stretched jaws. The erected carcasses were positioned in a North, East, South, West formation, binding the horrid mass. Repulsion towered over Glaskrath, like The Great Wall of Shihoon that resides to the far East, only substituting the historical art and craftsmanship for morbid and explicit features, malformed and violated until sight could no longer identify them as Arthonian.

Approaching the heap cautiously, Glaskrath inspects the mutilated remains. "These bodies are void of blood," he muttered to himself, "their wounds are completely dry." He pondered this thought; _"the possibility of the Svirateer warriors being responsible seems to be out of reason."_ The Sveds or Svedic people, being one of the six marauding tribes hailing from the land of Vulcraknite; the six marauding tribes once kingdoms that vastly flourished, through fear enthralled civilizations and brutality upon rebel incarnations, have thankfully long since fallen. _Though savage, I doubt such accurate bloodletting could be obtained by the likes of Kyrieta followers,"_ whom were rugged in all that they did _, "and I know, as well as they, the chance of aid Heksyn and Braevund would provide Wurheim upon invasion would be more than enough to keep those marauding Sveds at bay_. _Perhaps the Romulits?"_ One of the six Celestian beings that roam the great blue planet of Arthonias. _The beastly man-things proved to be unpredictable countless times before, and are carnivorous in their ways. Though in what reasoning would they gain by leaving their slaughtered rations behind? And what of the need for bloodletting their food?_ Resting these thoughts, Glaskrath rotates counter clockwise out of the shadow of the heap. Scanning the coagulated crimson scenery, Glaskrath spots a trail consisting of villagers, or what use to be the villagers. Swiftly he pursues the glistening path of extremities, deaf towards the faint crunch of snow muffling after him. Glaskrath guided by whats left of the villagers NorthEast, skirts the village converted graveyard, abruptly ending before the silence of a snow weeping Elrith.

Beyond Elrith, not many miles from Wurheim, lies the Mountains of Malhemith. A gorgeous snow peaked mountain, responsible for the former livelihood of Wurheim. All the mining and excavation, the grueling hours of tapping ore veins so that they may better themselves with profitable metals, and jewels in trade. All the strenuous labor, amounted to naught, for in time this once vivified village will be forgotten, like all great things in history. With a trail as cold as the air Glaskrath drew in, he relieves himself of a deeply regretful sigh as the questions he chased, vanished before answers could be made whole. Turning to make his way back, a startled Glaskrath very nearly encounters a snarling diseased-ridden bite, belonging to a mangled ghoulified villager, demonically hissing like its wicked relative of the underworld, the serpent, and just as venomous too. As the multi fanged creature lunged for attack, Glaskrath gripping his brilliantly gilded and garnished hilt; which pommel artistically crafted a wolf led to a sparkling garnet centering the cross-guard, the cross-guard itself outlined in graven moonstones extending outward, slightly curving in from the opposite direction. Forcefully unsheathes his exquisite steel broadsword in a horizontal slash, swiftly severing the creatures legs at knee point. The creature collapses with velocity. Kicking the fiend onto his back, Glaskrath raises his inverted broadsword high enough to catch a gleam of firelight reflecting off the steel, garnet, and moonstones just before driving it down until the deadites yellow flesh was ground-pinned by the blackened cross-guard. Attention was intently fixed upon Glaskrath as he unsheathed his hatchet; shrill shrieks of hunger pierced threw its distorted vocal chords, flailing its sharpened nailed arms about, while the chomping of its supernaturally elongated jaws foamed black liquidated chunks. It's soul was as black as the rotted organs it protruded, empty and animalistically devoid of natural emotion. Hack after hack Glaskrath ventually parts its head from the spinal cord, taking witness to its helpless immortality, still shrieking, still biting. He discards the decapitated head; his foot quickly following the release, smashing the bridge of the nose inward, popping the cranial lid in a splattered stream of exuding black gunk, seeping and soaking the snow-white canvas till it to was cursed with its infected blood. As Glaskrath yanks the sparkling hilt of his broadsword from the chest of the executed fiend, he embraces the slight rays of warmth glimmering through the frosted trees. Inhaling greatly, he exhales just as much, releasing an ice cold whisper audible to his ears alone; "vampyres".

A flash of lighting was Glaskrath; bolting forth to the staked heart of Wurheim, un-surprised to find the mangled but mobile corpses of villagers struggling to rise, unconsciously incapable due to their new found handicaps, though monstrously snarling in attempt. Glaskrath wielding both broadsword and hatchet, charges while advantage is still in his favor. One by one, he slew them; plunging sword into heart and hatchet threw neck until he stood motionless, at the wake of their deaths, his fur lined leather cloak and weapons, dripping with their spoiled blood.

As he finished piling the reanimated corpses, adding onto the heap that monumented the end of Wurheim, the fire in the sky began to sink. Glaskrath applied broken wood and strands of hay in an around the heap. Noticing the destruction of many gear-lock firearms, those modeled in the styling of Vulcraknites's, and smashed cartridges of flare-works littering the snow. The unused powder uselessly laying in piles before mingling into the frosty breeze, answered Glaskrath the question to why Heksyn nor Braevund up North was alerted. _"Without the blazing rod of the God Kahaligara"_ , whose creation of the flare-work hails from the land far NorthEast as well, _"our attention would ultimately go unnoticed, as it did,"_ thinking to himself. Without any other means of ignition, Glaskrath grabs a stock of burning lumber from the once raging, but now waning remains of Wurheim, and ignites the horrid mass. The crackling fires were at a roaring competition with vampyrec shrilled cries of agony. The rancid smog was blacker than the smoke that welcomed Glaskrath's arrival, and more deadly one would assume. For the virus could still linger in a biological state, its boiled blood vaporized, possibly infecting the breather's immune and digestive system with obscure pathogens. Sickness could occur, or worse, a possible reanimation of the possessing fiends genes. Glaskrath shielding his mouth with his cloak, watches as the reflecting pyre dances in his vibrant pupils. With a swift jolt, he turns his back on the blazing heap, making way for Heksyn. Harkening to the fading shrieks that echo behind him, he elevates his lumber torch, illuminating the dulling path before him. His memory, forever effected by the macabre sightings, and yet still burdened by the unfortunate duty of reporting the sudden dissolution of alliances. A task he must see done, for Glaskrath knew if he'd succumb to the evils of the night, who would know? None would be aware of the atrocities that befell Wurheim, and of the severing of their resources that Wurheim provided. Lamenting the crack within Heksyns economical foundation, they'll become weakened and more prone for an invasion, and with their closes allies laid waste, they'd stare the possibility of defeat, face to face. With this, Glaskrath made hast, cautious and aware of the evils that linger the evening air. Venturing once more into the heavily wept sorrow, that Elrith lamented for Wurheim.

Chapter 4:

When Dark Devours Light

Several hours flew as Glaskrath navigated vigilantly. With a mindset so keen; one could rival a starving wolf prowling for prey. Whiffing and retaining minimal traces of iron from obscure sources lurking the vast and chilled Elrith, though with every scent of blood obtained, it would completely diminish by the squall of winds carrying the scent in multiple directions. "Oh Elrith," an admiring Glaskrath gazing upon the snow rustled trees, "though deadly, your beauty is only enhanced by the frantic dancing of your gargantuan shapes, as the mighty frosted winds blowing from the land of Ycerin far West leads your dance, responsible for your every cascading shuddered release. Your so cold, but could be so merciful, and like most beautifully heartless harlots, you could be the death of me." As her voluptuous swaying continued to increase, the glory of the astronomical fire was almost set. The sunburst flames ignited the horizon, lower and lower it sunk until the Enfierno Altazimo and the Vaztoeido mountains in the West, banished it from sight. Darkness had devoured the daylight, aside from the raging lumber torch Glaskrath wielded, the only radiance outlining the dusky and gloomy, blizzard plagued Elrith. Was that of the pale somber beam of the astronomical ice hanging from so high above.

Glaskrath's keen vision and hearing was impaired, nightfall playing a fiendish hand in it, however, it was the relentless bombarding of snow and wind that cut the extension of his sight and perception of sound tenfold. With one harsh swoop, Glaskrath tumbled forward extending his right leg to balance himself, only to be vaulted over by his attempt. Crashing into the snow, his lumber torch extinguished immediately, as the wind rattled Glaskrath about. Gaining his footing, Glaskrath faces the absolute disadvantage of darkness, blind and unsure of the path before him. Without choice Glaskrath continues forward. Every heave of breath burning Glaskrath's lungs cold, but determinedly, the noble Heksyn trudged forward through the rising snow. Broken icicles flung from branches unseen, pricking and slicing the shivering flesh of Glaskrath. Although the icy strikes themselves weren't severe, as they were bone chilling, the minor wounds inflicted on hands, forearms, and face stung with every gust of freezing wind invading the leaking crevasses. Stamina continuously depletes, the air becoming more difficult to breathe by the second; but a warrior's instinct and the will of Vulcraknite guides Glaskrath. "To punish the undead fiends responsible of such ignominious violation, and hackish slaughter." He shouted passionate and vigorously, trudging through the shin heightened snow, "to cast them back to the fiery darkness in which they dwell." "To avengue and free the restless spirits of Worheim, that prayed and pleaded for mercy." Glaskrath arching his back proudly, as the Heksyns were taught, "justice be thy name, for Vulcraknite will guide my singing bolt threw thine monstrous hearts, or my life be slain in attempt." Glaskrath's pallid features remained unflinching as he continued forward, heaving both body and breath. Unknown to he, that every heavy step taken, drew the Heksyn closer to the objective he swore completion to. Forcefully lifting his right leg threw the piling snow, struck a great startle as his leather booted sole, rimmed brim with the very sacred fur that lined his cloak, sunk beneath the bottomless snow like quicksand.

Despite the abrupt dismay of Glaskrath's jarred senses, he briskly shifts his weighted physique, but tumbled rapidly nevertheless. Falling several feet below ground backside first, the stern an uneven blow of the gear-lock quiver echoed a shock-wave of pain that wrought Glaskrath's spine, his constricting lungs froze in a momentary gasp of panic, oxygen seized in coughs and unbearable throat tensing. Calmly attempting to draw in air threw nasal apparatus, he steadily expires the current through mouth. The Heksyns speedily breathes began to slow to intervals, and his previously racing mind began to trod a pace. As the siege upon Glaskrath's oxygen subsided, he mustered the strength to haul his weighted physique upward, with right hand upon the rocky wall, he once more felt ground beneath his leather booted soles. Sight was at the mercy of the cavernous black, and Glaskraths ears were invasively penetrated by the haunted whistling of the stale winds. The only faint source of lighting, helping to adjust his strained purple-bagged eyes, was that of the icelights somber pale beam transcending the cave obliquely from the shaft above. Glaskrath attempting to climb his way up the shaft, slips again and again, for the rocks protruded poorly from the frozen soiled walls, making it unsuitable for his firm grip. The cavernous black began to stir fear within Glaskraths heart. Arching his back proudly, mind tensed, gut-wrenched, and limbs stiff, as sweat soundlessly and slowly drips from his brow, unknowing to what lies beyond the tracks. His suspense stricken thoughts pondered sinister notions, a creature of thought glares with eyes as crimson as Arthonian blood, rows of daggers infusing its gum line, preparing to strike from the masking shadows at the moment Glaskraths eyes dull and body wears. Plausible was the thought, for his subconscious whiffing traced remnants of the un-fondly familiar stench of the cryptic dead, fragrancing the stale air.

Without option, Glaskrath dropped to his knees, joined his fingertips and palms, averted his soul behind his lids, and meditated for spiritual guidance. Questions and confessions flooded his thoughts, yet all remained unanswered. Silence shunned Glaskraths hopes, but nevertheless, his internal prayer continued on, faithfully unwavered, repetitively reciting _"bless it thou our guiding light, bright and white banish thy night, regress thy shadows exposed,_ _vanquish now thine fiendish foes, bless it he who hath now pray,_ _whom yearns for light in dark days, grant thy strength to persevere, part my soul away from fear_." As Glaskrath internally spake the prayer, a faint glow within his ancestral sigil unknowingly grew brighter. An ear piercing rush of static-waves buzzed within Glaskraths skull, as if insects swarmed his mind, searching for an escape; an emanating pain coursed the center of his forehead, radiating into the veins connecting his vision. Every throbbing pulse was excruciatingly sensitive, writhing Glaskrath to utter submission. Symbols lost within time flashed brightly in the darkness of thought, as if flames embedded the outlining symbols, searing it profoundly into his lopes. Blood vessels verged on bursting, and his violently pulsating temples induced him massive migraines. After howling in torment for what seemed to be centuries, Glaskrath's un-fathomable plight ceased. Speechless was he, upon widening his eyes, for all was illuminated threw negative technicolor sight, glossing over with radiating white pupils. "When dark devours light, and all seem helpless to its whim. What continues to strive, when all else lie damper and dim?" Spaketh a booming baritone voice, his riddle reverberating within Glaskraths head. Invisible was he, to Glaskraths keen and radiating eyes, _"his concealment must be superb, for the obscure voice enthralls my_ attention _as if conversing so plainly before me"_ , Glaskrath thought. Baffled, for he could not truly comprehend the abrupt vibrancy that broke the long an silent whistle of the stale winds, nor did he wish to anger it. One answer alone struck Glaskraths mind like hammer to anvil, ringing the thought of realization as he spoke the word "perseverance." The booming baritone voice responded, "go my Heksyn child, and see done the task that was set before thee, may thy light guide and reveal to you the concealed mysteries of this world and the variant realms within." Glaskrath inspecting with his newly illuminated vision, finds the only sources for escape was that of the shaft above, which already proved to be thwarted. An that of the railway path trailing the cavern before him. The tracks behind him led, not far, to a stone crafted buffer stop, beyond that, another frozen soiled dead end. So without other choice, Glaskrath unsheathes his broadsword with his right hand, followed by the unsheathing of his hatchet with his left. Quietly, with only the spirit of Vulcraknite and the haunted winds accompanying him, he cautiously proceeds forward, prepared for the intestinal knotting of terror these arcane tunnels had in store for him.

Chapter 5:

The Desolate Underworld

Heedfully striding threw the ancient cobwebs draping the interior of the arcane tunnels, Glaskrath maneuvers pass the arachnids spawning and feasting on the hordes of screeching vermin fleeing to escape their venomous hallucinogenic kiss. Those thicker, there for slower in pace, are the first to be preyed upon by the death dealing insects. Glaskrath gravely witnessing, ponders the ironic relevancy of his situation, sympathizing the vermin, for nothing is more precious to any creature than life. _"A single draw of blood, and your theirs forever. Their atrocious eyes of eight, gleaming crimson as vivid and organic as Arthonian blood, peering upon your soul. Watching, waiting, all awhile you painfully slip into paralysis. Within that moment; when cradled by fear, they'll grant you the horrid honor of gawking in frozen anguish, as they're prickly dusky frothing fangs penetrates your veins, tapping you dry of the liquid life force coursing our body."_ Goosebumps struck with a jolting shiver upon the extensive thought, for Glaskrath hoped Arthonians were more than just mere rations, portioned in consumption by the blood lusting fiends whom entranced and ended their simple life's. Upon the lengthy tedious crunching and breaking of limbs beneath Glaskraths soles, attributed by both arachnids and vermin alike, he encounters a diminished barrage of uniquely woven webs. Ghastly were the hanging strains swaying gently, a cool and tranquil leak ominously caressing there phantom like motions; ghastlier still, was he whom in a transparent state, flickered within a strobe effect of factual phantom motions. The spectrum in which Glaskrath perceived the transparent man opposed that of the surrounding ivory track and walls, his features were clear as the sky during flourish, though ebony shaded. Though the most peculiar thing was that his pupils vibrantly sparkled blue, pure like the ocean, and like the ocean, was vastly swimming in fears. His lips appeared to be motioning words, though speechlessly mute was his sound. Drawing closer, the transparent man stumbled, colliding into the diminished barrage of webs. After frantically squirming for a few seconds, his aura and presence began to thin, until vanishing completely; it wasn't till he parted did Glaskrath see, the spot in which the transparent man squirmed was the very resting place of the mans petrified remains, swathed in the arachnids silk, hatch-lings excavating the corpse, flowing like ivory rivers from the dried orifices. Respectfully bowing whilst rounding pass the spider bloated corpse, Glaskrath carried onward, lightly sprinting closer and closer towards the slightly increasing breeze. Refreshing it was, for the desolate underworld's atmosphere was parched and asphyxiating, every step taken only helped to infect Glaskraths oxygen with dust and soil, though without steps, Glaskrath would be un-successful in navigating the tunneling path endlessly dragging on before him. Swallowing was beginning to become more difficult for the Heksyn, saliva was scarce in this situation, and dehydration was onset. The only chance of survival was beyond these tunnels, and Glaskrath hesitated not, knowing time was of the essence. " _Time,"_ a miraculous concept he thought, _"baffling to us still, though we've come to understand the rise and fall of both fire and ice is repetitional and not ever changing. Yet time is fathomless here. In the hollows time is irrelevant, for the greatest gift to mankind is exiled here, granting every shadow lurker in the depths of the dark, the only powers of prediction and presumption."_

The smothering soot moderately dissipates, as Glaskrath slowly approaches a gigantic stone-carved portal. Painstaking movements from the slanted portal firmly plants Glaskrath, having him standing slightly sloped, with his weight leaning towards the right. The cavern Glaskrath entered was wider than the narrow darkening ivory tunnel from whence he came, and the ivory tracks traversing the narrow tunnel connected to another lining the floor farther then his eyes could perceive. Though his vision burned fiercely, the intervals of pain shooting threw his forehead was a significant tick tock of time fading. For if the fire beaming from his exhausted eyes died out, Glaskrath too would be extinguished. The Heksyn makes his way left, with the knowledge that the elevating floor would guide him back to the surface. The vibrancy in his eyes began too moderately wither, his radiant sight dispersing only half the portion of darkness engulfing the abandoned mine, then it did a few hours before. As Glaskrath ascended the rusted railway tracks, his thick soles vibrated the hollow tracking with a soft metal clank upon each step he took. Though soft, the sound within the dead silence was more than enough to keep his racing heart vigilantly on-guard, his paranoid eyes catching notice of few other stone-carved portals; _"more than likely other perpetual labyrinthine coursing the vein of Mother Naia._ He grimly thought. _"Gems, silver, gold and ore streaming richly, rooted deeply within the desolate underworld, the source of livelihood for many, but all that seems to be left now, is death."_ The foreboding silence kept Glaskraths instincts alerted and cautioned for the worst, holding his hatchet closely inward to chest, he firmly grips the hilt of his broadsword, arm extended and ready to strike. The ground began to level, giving the Heksyn more proper footing. _"Strange"_ a puzzling thought rose within Glaskrath, _"A gust of fresh wind should be welcoming my arrival to the surface, but only a faint leaking breeze accompanies my presence, though the entrance must be close, I'm sure of it."_ The entrance to the mines indeed being close, but as fate would have it, a thickened wall of snow barricaded the adit before him. Creating the impossibility for any, and every life form too make its way in, as well as out. Glaskrath inspects the enclosed entrance, concluding the only possibility of penetrating the layers of snow, would take a remarkable amount of force and velocity, one no mere mortal could obtain. Standing before the snow wall, unbeknownst to his next strategical action, Glaskrath moral morosely sank. Sheathing his weapons and averting his gaze to the tracks traveling the cave down the slope, was met with an un-suppressed dreadful aura feeding off his fear stricken soul, the feeling grossly protracted, until a loud and heart stopping bang repeatedly commenced. Frozen within a terror struck trance, Glaskrath slowly turns in sheer fright, loathing every second within the impending confrontation of what he's to meet. Glaskrath's partial rotation discerns to him a disgruntled man, just as transparent as the last. Wildly he crashed his distorted fists upon the snow wall, as if trying to break free from the icy imprisonment; his disembodied voice grunted and heaved grimly within every strike, and when the inevitable realization set back in, his manic screaming of hopelessness rung throughout the hollows deep. Glaskrath gazed upon the fury held within death, a thrall instigator of its own final emotion, imprisoning the anguished soul lest it continue to the life beyond. A glitch within the transparent mans eternal loop was achieved by he, statically whisking his unbearably forlorn inducing aura before Glaskrath. Inquisitively the transparent man scowled with eyes deep and blue as the ocean, into Glaskraths slightly dimming fluorescent sight. The Heksyn trembled at the ice cold touch of the transparent mans hands, holding his face perpendicular to his own. As the ghastly grimacing figure leaned into Glaskrath, their pupils practically touch before sending Glaskrath into a premonition of the past.

A chilled morning breeze greets the lively transparent man and his men as they arrive before the un-tampered entrance of the adit, excavating the rocky interior of the Mountains of Malhemith. Wielding iron pickaxes wooden at the handle, and grins of the most ambitious minds, they chatter happily as they linger before the gaping mouth waiting for the arrival of their scouters. The scouters sent ahead to prepare for the laborious days work, call out to them from South yonder, heralding news that the shaft from the direction they came, has been buried due to a mass accumulation of snow. The transparent man exultingly responds, "it will be dealt with in time, for today's labor doth not consist of hauling carts of materialistic values and ores up the slope, therefore the path to mechanically extract such, is not needed." After a quick pause he continued, "Today we shall make progress, advancing deeper beyond the encrusted wall lining the further end of the wooden-craft structure we've established within Malhemith, soon we'll be tapping new found veins streaming richly in gems, silver, gold, and ore, and much profit will river from it." The cheering men initiate the day as they stroll through the adit, torches an pickaxes at hand, and as the transparent man ingresses; a baleful sensation begins to wrap around his stomach, like a snake squeezing the life from its prey just before the morbid unhooking of its jaws to ingests the helpless victim. Ice forming at the corners of the adit gave notion to a possibility, a possibility which in the end was overturned, due to the transparent mans calculating perception of the appeared clear and calm wither day. "Be sure to take a cart with you, we'll be hauling and stacking the debris into piles in the center of the structure, we'll dispose of them but later, for now we focus on advancing the track deeper into Malhemith." The transparent man commanded, "what of this cart sir?" The transparent man ganders at the debris filled cart his scouter gestured to and shakes his head, "leave this one, we'll dispose of it upon our parting, now then, let us make haste, that we may return to our families in peace and before the nightfall." For hours they labored a constant jaunty repetition of pickaxes upon stone, every crack of foundation was met with sparkling metal strikes, igniting the passions and dreams foreseen by their forebearers; for with every a life richer in materialistic means, so cometh a more simplistic and secure one altogether. This is what it meant for their truest ambitions to flourish, and the feat they sought to accomplish for their people. Upon carving a gigantic portal, advancing their procession, they commenced celebration in victory for their strenuous labor, hooting and hollering exultingly. As the miners gaily celebrated, the scouters continued onward, torches illuminating the uncharted areas newly opened. From the dimming lights of the distant torches, a frequency pitchery than the clustered laughter and conversation, screeches terribly from the darkness encircling the dim torches. The men in utter horror jolt their attention towards the newly carved portal, their worried glares fixating upon the torches lying motionless on the floor of the uncharted space. Shadows whisked about the dimly illuminated cavern, throwing oddly shapes of monstrous silhouettes athwart the walls, but nothing in definite made presence. Men mustering the courage to approach the foreboding scene, grip their pickaxes fiercely as they called out to the scouters obscured by the black, fear cracking and trembling their ever word. As they ingress the newly carved portal, a momentary of silence is abruptly disrupted by roars of panic ejaculating from the cavern. The men fled whilst screaming of shadowed terrors hideously lurking closely to the dying embers of the torches; approaching close enough to semi-outline the prowling creatures strangely repulsive and decrepitly indented scowl-like features, and the hunger in its depraved and concaved eyes, beady and organically vibrant as Arthonian blood. Mortified the transparent man watched as the fleeing miners were dragged back by ankle into the blackness, their fingernails painting a bloody trail whilst scrapping a sound as terrible as their gasping screams. Strange shadows began shifting from corner to corner faster than the eyes could perceive, extinguishing the blazing torches that illuminated the wooden-craft structures with every gust of movement they created. While the dwellers in darkness brought about the onslaught of his miners, the transparent man turned tail and strode up the sloping track, extending his waving torch to illuminate the path before him. As he fled, his second in command, whom barely escaped the continuing slaughter, followed directly and frantically behind him. Stumbling over the tracks, the second in command crashes into his superior while attempting towards the portal to his left, accidentally knocking the transparent man to a bruising knee height with burning palms skinned by gravel. Upon his falling, the torch had spun from grip dispersing the flame, vanquishing his only means of light. The transparent man, unknowing to the fate of the miner whom bypassed him down the webbed channeled portal, struggles to plant his aching soles. As the transparent man regains his footing and continues intently sprinting through the sloping darkness, shrilled cries bouncing off the walls from the tunnels beyond chase him. A hint of refreshing air revives the transparent mans spirits, his hopes growing vaster as the sloping floor shifted evenly upon his hustling feet. The fear of death impending, as well as the excitement of life living, bundled together emotional tears overly spent within the events of the passing hour, and through his speedily ascension, it would all be over soon. Though a swift cracking blow to the face of the transparent man voided the bittersweet triumph he believed was onset. In a livid daze, he commenced his inevitable banging on the snow wall, screaming in hopelessness, for he was sure what towered before him, was that of the snow buried entrance. All the laborious hours of piking and stacking the soot debris, who could have foretold that nature, through the aid of blizzards, was intern striving towards a similar feat; stacking the piling snow within the icing foundation of the adit, secretly encasing them within the aspirations they so heavily sought to make a reality. The transparent man ceases his flurry of hits at the sound of an eerily close low cackled growl, turning upon the profound darkness, he commences a hysterical whimper at the face of imminent death, unknowing and blind to the skeletal talons that sadistically reach out for him.

In a bright flash, Glaskrath's whirling mind withdraws from the past premonition. His faintly dimming eyes watering with empathy for the horrible events that accord, due to the terrible and selfishly ambitious decision made. Though the spiritual guilt dwelling journey Glaskrath embarked spaketh in tremendous waves the remorse the transparent man held, even within his repeating death. Glaskrath approached the snow wall once more. Hunching against the natural barricade a few feet away from the central adit, was the bloody corpse of the ghastly forlorn man. Glaskrath squatted before him, reaching out to comprehend the truth of his unfortunate fate. One gentle sway of Glaskraths wrist, an a distance of disgust became adequate; the transparent mans head grotesquely toppled forward, partially decapitated, but strand together by gnawed and torn muscle tissue and flesh. His lifeless inverted eyes as hollow and glassy as a porcelain doll's, peered at Glaskrath, his inverted mouth stretching horridly agape, as if done in while screaming bloody murder. A twisted rendering of his former lively self was all that remained of him. Bowing his head in respect, Glaskrath started to ponder. _"The fiends responsible for the onslaught of the Wurheim miners, must be the very same that annihilated Wurheim itself; if that be the casing to the vile mystery, there must be an alternative mouth whistling from within Malhemith outward, for there'd be no other way to freedom."_ Upon his conclusive thought, shrilled hissing and back-lashing growls reverberate threw the rocky walls. Hostility morphed Glaskraths features while silently descending the rusted railway tracks a few feet, the volume of the monstrous bickering increasing with every step. Glaskraths racing heart practically pounded the inner wall of his chest, his microscopically thin hairs upon the nip of his neck rose like the undead, as he approached a stone-carved portal channeling the malevolent bellows. Even though fear stalked his every move, the Heksyn marched the narrow tunnel heroically, a soldier of Vulcraknite. The malevolent bellowing became more distinct the further Glaskrath ventured. Growing louder and clearer, until it eventually brought Glaskraths inquisitive pace to a rubble sliding halt. The end of the narrow tunnels portal, extends a rocky walkway a few feet before meeting the ledge, granting Glaskrath a full view of the entire cave and its wooden-crafted structure. Glaskrath kneels to observe the gruesome sight un-detected. Scattered bits of the miners litter the blood-soaked soil, further rusting the tracks that traverse the vampyrec hive. The vampyres faint silhouettes were the same shade of ebony as the ghastly wanderers Glaskrath encountered before; what differed betwixt them was their eyes. Instead of the ocean blue, an unholy flaring of hellfire was in place for eyes, fearfully seering any soul who regretable look within them. The heavy aroma of spoiled iron rises higher and higher, lingering until that familiar soured taste triggers Glaskraths gag reflex; but with no food to purge, his stomach painfully quivered, and his dry throat constricted until finally subsiding into a headache. The Heksyns temples severely throbbed at every shrill cry the fiends screeched, but Glaskrath was taught by Panthion, that a predator never averts their gaze from their prey, disadvantaged or not.

A vampyre robed in grape purple and white smoke carelessly lounges within a throne of fleshy bones; platinum blonde hair gracefully draping, golden earrings encrusted with a single ruby swaying as he rests chin upon palm, motioning eye loops of annoyance. The other feral fiends madly shriek, observing the argument betwixt the two lords. "Enough is enough Draude, our purpose was seeking alternative mouths channeling from the mountains of Siz to Malhemith. Not for your engorgement of the live-stock our elder tasked us to discover!" Draude's disdainful attitude breaks into a sneer as he unaturally levitates to the soles of his feet. "Why Izerett, you heel like a dog for my brother, and what has it gotten you? Centuries he's reign head of Phangren, but what of myself?" Draude drawing closer to Izerett, ghoulishly dragging his steps with an undisputed hate beaming from his crimson eyes, intentionally eurpting clouds of sooted soil, flings gravled debris about as the clouds rise and fade into a lingering brown fog. "Royalty courses in dust through these ancient veins, differing not from our elder. And yet still, his shadows cast is greater than my physical stature!" The fiends savagely shrieked in praisment for Draude. "I need not my brothers aid, for with the loyalty and bloodlust of my vamplings, we shall descend upon Heksyn, lewdly fornicating over the feasted of all who sheltered within! An once their fates have been met, the army of Draude will arise, and a new era of Phangren shall dawn!" Draudes razor grin peaked widely from cheek to cheek, as he looked upon the twisting and snarling expressions of his vamplings. "You dare challenge the authority of our elder Draiceil!" Draude's attention instantly darted back to Izerett. "The words in which you invoke, shall mark you a traitor in the eyes of Phangren upon our elders discovery of your newly found beliefs," Izerett spoke sternly and unwavering while leisurely grazing back his violet hair, dusting off his soil speckled burgundy robes at the end of his sentence. A grim cackle followed Izerett's statement, "Oh my dear watcher, why do you assume Draiceil will hear a thing about them?" The feral fiends hiss in a wickedly discorded symphony, loyal as dogs those sired by the same vampyre whom tasted their flesh, watching as their master elongates his black nails to talons and yellow teeth to fangs. Draude was a ghastly blur, unaturally lunging for a stiff death strike at the sharp point of his skeletal finger like daggers. Soaring as a spear, Draude breaks the distance, vastly descending in aim for Izeretts still beating heart. Izerett dazely vanishes within his unatural quickness; parring the piercing hand of Draude with a twisting grip to the wrist, driving his tweaked arm upward into an excruciating lock. Upon his knees, Draude bellowed in agony. Centering a flip foward, Draude unbalances Izerett's stance, loosening his grip. Flinging Izerett forth with unatural velocity, Draude recovers his footing, unaturally gliding backwards as Izerett crashes against the rocky wall. Izerett's speedful ascension was met with the discorded symphony of hisses. "Mark my words Draude," Izerett spat while realigning his stance, "beyond today, the only thing you'll be recollected as is a bodiless trophy." The savage shrieks immensely reverberate, as the two lords viciously charge each other once more.

Fretting over the disturbing possibility of Heksyn's annihilation, Glaskrath frantically pondered in hope for resolution. With every parched inhale drawn in, his exhale spiritually ascended his thoughts to an acutely focused state of awareness, and within his enlightened ascension the answer frantically searched was achieved. Whiskfully retracting into the portal, Glaskrath promptly treads the narrow tunnel to the end, darting right and making way up the sloping tracks. His sight mingled with the darkness, the waning shine was almost entirely absent, yet a persevering Glaskrath manages the entrance of the adit. Vigorously he arranges the debris within the cart so that he may sturdily center the Kahaligarin tool within. Attaching a treading wick to the Kahaligarin tool, Glaskrath then draws the second tool, one the God Kahaligara dubbed "lighter," and rotates the gear-lock mechanism until a soft click ignites a miniature flame. A patient waving of the technologically created flame over the twine wick, resulted in a sparkling hiss of its own. The sparkle quickly ate away at the smoke vanished wick, as Glaskrath thrusts the hefty cart to the brink of the slope. One final shove had Glaskrath racing behind the rapidly descending cart that sounded off stridently. The iron grating of the speeding wheels down the track conjured bright sparks, which radiated enough light within Glaskraths darkly cluttered eyes to spot the narrow tunnel he'd traversed to spy upon the vampyres. Darting within the pitch black portal, Glaskrath blindly strides on with his right hand guiding his way by wall. The guidance of the wall disappears from Glaskraths palm, leaving only the weightless air in his grasp. Recgonizing the walls disappearance as the opening of the portal's extending walkway, Glaskrath whips his body towards the direction of the vampyres while simultaneously ducking to his right knee and extending his left leg outward; unlatching the gear-lock trigger to his quiver with his right hand, Glaskrath detaches his gear-gripped bow from his back with his left. Ranking the arrow fiercely upon the bow string, Glaskrath harkens to the confused shrieks emanating from the caverns darkened depths. In only a matter of seconds the screeching cart rapidly enters practically flying off the tracks, hissing greatly as the fuse slowly comes to the end. The unwelcoming shrieks of confusion were greeted closely and personally by the fiery explosion of the cart. Though what Glaskrath, as well as the transparent man perceived as debris within the cart, actually held traces of Pyronium, which conducted a vaster explosion upon ignition. The mountains of Malhemith shook as if giants bombarded it with their massive cudgels. Flames created by the Pyronium's ignition danced upon the wooden structures, partially lighting the hazily dim cavern in Glaskraths vantage. Broken shrieks make their way to feet, only to be vanquished by the singing bolt of Glaskrath piercing their dark gray flesh and destroying their blackened hearts, as he swore they would. One by one, as Glaskrath picked off the feral vamplings, Draude and Izerett spot the Heksyn over head an commence a hideously shifting of their bodily shape. Morphing their physical appearance as they magically rearrange themselves, breaking and dislocating bones and sockets, until embodying the two monstrously animalistic abilities know of the Phangren clan. While Draude embodied the power of the hell-bat, Izerett embodied the power of the hell-hound, and before Glaskrath could release his ranked arrow through Draudes dark gray breast, the glimpse of Izerett vanishing on all fours beyond the sloping track, was enough for Glaskrath to anxiously hesitate. Though his puzzlement over the where about's of Izerett was faint, Glaskrath drew his off-guarded eyes back to Draude taking flight. The singing bolt Glaskrath released was deflected by the elongated talons of the aerial advancing Draude, whose skin and wings were of veiny leather, sprouteing platinum blonde fur. As the distance betwixt them came to a close, Glaskrath scarcely reattached his bow to the gear-lock grip before fleeing into the dimly lit tunnel from whence he came. The hellishly shrilled cackling of Draude stalked the speedily pacing of Glaskraths steps, his Arthonian heart pumped with adrenaline induced fear that coursed every crevasse of his exhausted body. Soaring down, Draude widens his talons grip in attempt to part Glaskraths head from shoulders. Glaskrath very nearly dodges, a courtesy given by the slanting drop of the floor upon the widening of the main tunnel. As Draude glided pass Glaskrath, proceeding left he vanishes down the shadowed railway slope dimly lit at the end, due to the raging fires that deconstruct the wooden structures the now deceased miners of Wurheim spent years crafting by steadily and strained hands. Unsheathing his broadsword, Glaskrath perspired coldly, heaving his blackening lungs for the minimal traces of crisp oxygen lingering the stale air. A drone crackle of silence befalls the sooted halls of Malhemith, throwing Glaskrath into a state of high alert as he gazed before the shadowed slope; calmly retracting his steps up the slope, Glaskrath vigiliantly eyes the tunneling darkness whose shadows danced in flickering passion. The hellish snarl of Izerett was all to sudden as his vibriantly gleaming crimson eyes, materialized from the shadows, revealing his monstrous jaws lined in overlapping daggers, Izerett lunges. Under the massive paws of the violet furred hell hound, Glaskrath laid trapped, squeezing the lining of Izeretts throat, reaching for the broadsword that had whipped from his grip. Izeretts muscles violently twiched as his bristles sharpened like blades, Glaskrath grazing the jeweled hilt of his broadsword barely voids the foul drooling fangs of Izeretts infectious bite. Tensing his muscles stiff, Glaskrath elevates Izerett by the throat, scarcely gripping his swords hilt as his burning bicep, tricep, and forearm fatigues. As Izerett flung his gaping jaws of hell before Glaskrath, his throat was violated by the burning cold steel of Glaskrath's broadsword, sheathing it deeper until the cross-guard aligned the base of Izeretts neck. As Glaskrath maddly twists his blade, blackened gunk showers from the putrid hole, bathing him in the cryptically foul odor that tastes of fermented death. The hellishly shrilled snarls of Izerett's agony increased to a pitchery frequency, almost whistling in a blood-curdling gurgle, as Glaskrath swipped his broadsword upward for a clean slice threw Izeretts skull; grotesquely fountaining the tainted black liquied from the quivering split that once was Izeretts neck and head. A swift kick to the ribs of the mutilated convulsing mess frees Glaskrath. As he strains himself to his feet, Glaskrath limply respires in staggered terror. Though spilt, the malformed verterbrate and skull of Izerett disconnects from the damaged muslce tissue with life of its own, reconnecting itself and arching back like a king cobra; while black parasitic veins burrow outward from the damaged tissue, whistling cuts of the wind upon the thwaking of its wildly whipping strands. The whipping strands burrow into the opposing quivering slit, organically sewing what was thought to be a fatal wound. In hopeless desperation, Glaskrath stumbles over his fatiguing legs trying to ascend the sloping railway as Izerett regenerates. A hellishly shrilled cackle resonates from the depths of the dimly lighted slope, growing louder and louder, until instinct whirled Glaskrath into a fully extended strike. The plunging of his broadsword into darkness spurted back streams of black gunk as Glaskrath rocketed through the tunnel, keeping distance at the wielding of his stained jeweled hilt while the skeletal talons of Draude shoves the lengthening of the blade deeper into his breast, his crimson veins rupturing an asphyxiating dust anicent and foul, all in attempt to taste the warm blood pumping through Glaskrath. Ranking his trembling neck to the side, Draude draws his lips back in strike. His yellow fangs nearly piercing Glaskraths filthy neck, but the blessing of Vulcraknite made its presents within the illuminating of the ancestral sigil which seared the monstrous lips of Draude. A thundering explosion echoed within a fading shriek, as Glaskraths throbbing physique crashes into the cushioning snow. "Oh Elrith," an admiring Glaskrath lays gratefully relieved, "your shimmering beauty remains truly ummatched, for absoulte hope dawns in the sight of your calmly sweet caress. Your so warm, though you can be so cruel, and like a rare and fair maiden, loyal and loving, bettering both mannerisms and morals of her man, has been the saviour of me." Glaskrath rises and recieves delightfully soft kisses of fresh wind calmly torrenting the forest of Elrith; shaking off the ancient soot, Glaskrath retracts his blade from the ribcage of Draudes dusty coaxed remains. A jubilation of sepulchral graditude echoes in whispers, coinciding with the whistling of the unclogged adit. Glaskrath watches in stonishment as the souls of the miners materialize from the darkness; waves of them straining their ghastly strobe like movements, reaching out for the graceful shine of the heavens, and vanishing into astral smoke upon the greeting of the light. As the wandering souls make their final pillgramge to the after, the crimson eyes of Izerett beam vibrantly within the darkness of the aidit. Without fear Glaskrath scowls back, raising his broadsword, he bellows in victory as the astronomical fire reflects off the steel portions of the blackened blade. Izerett silently marks his vengeance for a time later, as his icy crimson stare vanishes in the stark blackness of the mine. Limply Glaskrath crouches in pain as he jams his middle and index finger into the empty sockets of Draudes skull. Gripping it firmly, he ranks back the skull, swiftly severing the spinal attachment, acquiring all the proof needed to support the terribly macbre findings that Glaskrath endured. With Draudes skull at hand Glaskrath makes his way South for Heksyn, limping and triumphantly shaking with great mirth; for as he stared into the hollow eyes of Draude, Glaskrath recalled the sturdy barks of Warchief Frosgrom, gaily repeating them under his exhausted breath. "The larger the beast, the greater your glory!"


End file.
